Fragile Lines
by TheWallsWeBreakThrough
Summary: Maysilee Donner: District Partner. Enemy. Ally. Friend. Lover. Haymitch Abernathy struggles to draw the lines and keep them there. The story of the 50th Hunger Games and district 12's original star crossed lovers.
1. Chapter 1

**Story Title: Fragile Lines**

**Genre: Romance/Angst**

**Summary: Maysilee Donner. District Partner. Enemy. Ally. Friend. Lover. Haymitch Abernathy struggles to draw the lines and keep them there. The story of the 50th Hunger Games and district 12's original star crossed lovers.**

**Pairings: Haymitch/Maysilee, Haymitch/OC**

**Rating: T (for the moment) Warning, will probably get bloody. Very bloody. Also, some of this material won't be the happiest. Haymitch is a troubled soul.**

**Other: Slight AU. Following Suzanne Collins's basic plot for the 50th Hunger Games but some elements will be changed.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games or any of Suzanne Collins's pre-imagined characters or events. I do however own any OCs, as well as the ins and outs of this plot, since I'm not following canon exactly.**

**A/N: Heyy everyone, here's the beginnings of that Haymitch/Maysilee story I promised. Not sure how often I'll update, but I'm really enjoying this pairing so far, so we'll see. For those who faithfully follow my other stories, don't worry, I'm not giving up, I just needed a little break. I will finish Suffering on the Sidelines, I promise, and I'm also working on a sequel to Annie's Story. Anyway, back to Fragile Lines... basically, this is going to be the 50th Hunger Games as I like to have imagined them. That means that, although the main elements will still be here, it is a little AU. The romance will play a larger role although at the moment I don't plan on changing Haymitch's being the only victor. That would be selling out ;)**

**Anyway, enough chatter and on with the story! Please leave a review and let me know what you think of the Haymitch I've created here.**

* * *

**CHAPTER ONE**

* * *

"Haymitch." My kid brother shakes my shoulder. "Haymitch, wake up."

I feign sleep, hoping Theo might leave me alone and I'd be able to stay in bed and pretend today is just another normal day. In reality, I'm wide awake, sleep having escaped me for most of the night.

"Haymitch." Theo shakes me harder, his voice rising in pitch a little. "_Please_." Sensing the desperation in his tone, I open one eye. He's knelt on my bed, leaning over me, his face drawn up in anguish. "Haymitch, it's _today_."

I open the other eye and struggle to my elbows. My little clock on the bedside table catches my eye and I let out a groan.

"God, Theo." I say. "It's only four o'clock."

He shrinks back a little.

"I know." He says in a small voice. "But it's _today _and I can't sleep."

I wipe a tired hand across my face.

"I know, kiddo." I say. "But it's gonna be okay, you know that right?"

"They're gonna pick four kids, Haymitch." Theo says with a sniff. I sit up properly, shuffling over in bed and holding back the covers.

"Get in." He obeys. "Look," I carry on quietly. "Your name is only in there six times." I fight the frown. I'm still angry that my dad made Theo apply for tesserae this year. "There are hundreds and hundreds of pieces of paper in that bowl. The chance of them picking your name is so small it doesn't even exist."

"What about you?" Theo asks. "Your name is in there twenty times."

Twenty five actually, but I don't correct him.

"Still." I say, wrapping my arm around him and giving him a squeeze. "That's nothing, really, is it?"

"No." He admits grudgingly.

"Right." I continue. "So there's nothing to worry about." I give him a grin. "And I heard mom say yesterday that she's making apple pie for pudding tonight." As I had hoped, Theo smiles.

"Bagsy biggest piece." He chimes and I chuckle.

"Okay, kiddo." I say. "Biggest slice goes to you."

He lets out a little sigh of contentment and leans into my chest. But then he goes all silent and I know he's still absolutely terrified.

"It'll be okay, Theo." I say softly. "I promise."

* * *

...

* * *

Theo stays in my bed, and, obviously comforted by either my words or my presence, falls back to sleep pretty quickly. I, however, can't seem to be able to. Theo keeps kicking me and I can't stop my mind from racing at a hundred miles an hour. All I can think about is the Reaping and the fact that because it's the Quarter Quell, they're going to be sending _four_ kids from each district into that arena. How the Capitol can think sending twice the amount of kids to their deaths is a form of celebration though is beyond me.

What if if it's _my_ name they pick out of that bowl? Or worse, _Theo's_. And what about my girlfriend? Robyn has three younger sisters, all of whom she's taken out tesserae for, which, including tesserae for her parents, means her name is in the Reaping bowl _thirty five _times.

Dammit. What if it's all three of us?

In the end, I can't stand lying in that bed – staring up at the ceiling, listening to Theo's steady breathing – any longer. Just after sunrise, I slide out of bed, taking great care not wake my little brother, and head into the other room. My dad is still slumped on the rickety camp bed my parents share, but my mom is at the table doing some sewing.

"Morning ma." I collapse into the chair opposite her. She looks up with a weary smile.

"Morning, sweetie." She takes in my shadowed eyes and her expression grows concerned. "Trouble sleeping?"

"Yeah. Theo woke me up pretty early. I let him sleep in my bed, but _damn_," I give an exaggerated groan. "That kid kicks."

Ma smiles fondly.

"Is he still asleep?"

"Yep." I rest my elbows on the table, watching her fingers work over and over at her darning. It's strangely calming actually.

Eventually, though, her eyes lift to meet mine.

"It'll be okay, honey."

"That's what I keep telling Theo." I rest my chin in my hand. "But I'm not sure I believe it."

Mom sighs.

"I wish neither of you needed tesserae." She says sadly, her eyes creeping towards my snoring father. I don't reply at first. What can I say? What can I do? What can my mom do?

You see, my dad, he's an alcoholic. A _raging_ alcoholic. Always got some kind of stiff liquor in the house, always got a healthy stock. No matter how bad it gets, no matter how little food we can afford, my dad always has a bottle. Or twelve. He'll trade anything, spend anything to get alcohol. One winter me and my brother had to go to school every day in three foot of snow without coats. We simply couldn't afford them.

Funny. My dad never went without a drink that winter.

"Hopefully he'll drink himself to death sometime soon." I mutter darkly. Mom shoots me a _look _and I subside with a roll of my eyes. From the bed on the other side of the room, dad lets out a loud, nasal snore. I feel my hands curl into fists.

"Momma?" Theo appears out of the bedroom, wearing my coat over his pyjamas. I smile at him over her shoulder.

"Cold?"

He gives me a sheepish grin.

"Yeah."

"You alright, sweetie?" Mom asks him. "It's still quite early." He trudges over to sit next to her.

"I know." He yawns. "I woke up and Haymitch was gone, so I couldn't get back to sleep."

"Sorry, kiddo." I say.

My dad chooses that moment to lift his head. His eyes are bloodshot.

"Is the Reaping over yet?" He slurs and I'm suddenly furious.

"No." I sneer. "Go back to sleep."

"Don't cheek me, kid." He growls, floundering a little on the bed as he struggles to sit up. "Or I'll come over and skin you like a rabbit."

"You know I might be worried," I say scathingly. "If you could actually stand."

"Haymitch." Ma says softly. "Please."

I ignore her. I'm on a roll now, blazing like a forest fire.

"One day, dad." I say angrily. "_One day_ we need you to be there for us and you can't even manage that."

He stares at me – stumped, still drunk as a skunk – like the idiot he is.

"Just forget it." I get to my feet abruptly, the chair shooting backwards, the scrape echoing around the room. "I'm going out."

"Where?" Ma is aghast.

"Just out." I snap back, stalking off across the room. I pause in the doorway and turning back, give my dad the fiercest glare I can muster. "Don't worry." I hiss. "I'll be back in time for the Reaping. Wouldn't want to miss a chance to get out of this hell hole, would I?"

And with that, I storm out of the house, slamming the door shut behind me.

* * *

...

* * *

"Reaping day is not a good day to get into arguments with your family." Robyn rests her head on my shoulder. "You never know what's going to happen."

We're sitting on the front steps of her porch, watching the Seam slowly come to life. Although it's the Reaping and everyone gets the day off, there are still chores to do and errands to run, and people are beginning to get on with their day. You can tell the people who've got kids of reaping age. Their faces are haggard and their eyes restless. I kind of feel sorry for them until I remember that I _am_ a kid of reaping age.

"I don't care," I declare in a tone that dares Robyn to question me. "My dad is a prat."

She leans back to look up at me, her eyes sympathetic.

"He's got his good points."

I let out a grunt.

"Uh. _Right."_

She lets out a little laugh, reaching up to cup my face, her grey eyes mirthful.

"You're such a grumpy old git, Haymitch." She says, smiling widely. I catch her hand in mine and turn my head to press a kiss to her palm.

"And you're such a charmer, aren't ya sweetheart?"

She laughs again and for a second, I forget it's the Reaping today, I forget that one of us – or even both of us – could end up dead in less than two week's time, it's just a normal day; a normal, almost happy moment.

And then I remember and the moment's gone. The smile slips from my face and I bring our hands back down between us, our fingers interlocking. Robyn must have the same feeling as me because the corners of her lips suddenly turn downwards and her head ducks.

"How was Elsie doing this morning?" I ask her gently, pulling her back into my arms.

"Not good." She says, her voice a little muffled by my jacket. "She was pretty scared." Elsie is Robyn's second youngest sister. She just turned twelve a month ago.

"How about you?" I venture.

"I'm pretty scared too." She whispers.

There is a moment of silence and we just sit there, locked in each other's embrace, contemplating. My fingers trace patterns on her hip.

"I'll tell you a secret, Rob." I say eventually, pressing my nose into her hair. "I'm scared as well."

"What?" She asks and I can tell by her voice that she's smiling, even if it's probably not a very happy smile. "The Great Haymitch Abernathy. _Scared_?"

"Uh huh." I say. "But tell anyone and I'd have to kill you." There is a little silence and I realise my joke is in poor taste. "God. I'm such an idiot."

She giggles although it's a little too high pitched and not at all like her usual infectious laugh.

"You're right about that, Abernathy." She says. I mock tut, giving her a quick, tight squeeze.

"You're getting far too cheeky for your own good, sweetheart."

In the distance, the clock tower chimes, signalling it's probably time for me to go home and get ready. I drop a kiss on Robyn's dark head.

"I'd best be going."

"Okay." She says, leaning back and slipping from my embrace. I notice her hand creep up to fiddle restlessly with her braid.

"Hey." I reach out and catch her wrist. "Stop it. It's going to be okay."

"You always say that," She says. "But how can you know?"

I think back to this morning, when Theo was sat in my bed and I told him it would be okay, and then when my mom told me the same thing at the table. _It's going to be okay. It's going to be okay._ It's like a damn mantra in our house. Everything's messed up right now, but it's going to be okay. It always is.

Until it's not.

My breath shudders through my teeth.

"I don't, Robyn, but it's all I've got."

* * *

...

* * *

**Sooo, what did ya think? I hope you like it so far, I know it's not hugely long. But yeah, let me know what you like or what you don't and thank you for reading!**

**EDIT: I've changed Haymitch's brother's name. Theo just fits better for me.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Enjoy, and please review :)**

* * *

**CHAPTER TWO**

* * *

It's early afternoon and the sun is high in the sky by the time Ma tells me and Theo to get our coats. We do so, and then we head out, leaving my dad still snoring on the bed. I bite back the sarcastic comment and instead, point out to Theo that his jacket is buttoned up wrong.

Silently, we join the stream of families heading up out of the seam and into the town. Robyn meets up with us at the end of the row, little Elsie and her other younger sister of Reaping age, thirteen-year-old Isabelle, in tow.

Robyn is dressed in a pretty if slightly soot stained dress, a worn jacket over the top.

"You look nice." I tell her hesitantly. I've never been much good with compliments. She takes my hand, lacing her fingers through mine as we continue walking.

"Thanks." She says. Her gaze shifts upwards and she inspects me with amused eyes. "I see your mom couldn't persuade you to do anything about your hair."

I grin at her, shaking it so the unruly curls fall over my forehead.

"Never in a million years."

As is expected for such a special occasion, Robyn's hair is pulled back in an elaborate braid. My own hair should have been slicked back, plastered to my head with gel, but no amount of badgering from my mom had persuaded me to do so. It infuriates me how everyone is forced to dress up for the Capitol, like we're some kind of performing animals. Leaving my hair defiantly untouched and untamed... it feels almost like a rebellion.

Robyn smiles and squeezes my hand.

"That's my Haymitch."

I squeeze her hand right back, before looking over her head at Elsie.

"You okay, Elly?"

She wraps her arms around herself, her thin shoulders hunching inside her coat.

"Yes." She says, trying for a smile, but her voice is nearly as tiny as she is, and I think she might be trying not to cry.

I leave it at that, partly because I know she won't want to talk and partly because crying females is something else I'm not much good at dealing with. I'm not particularly keen on keeping up a conversation with anyone though. It's always impossible to think of anything to say just before the Reaping. No one wants to talk about it or the possibility of their name being plucked from the Reaping bowl, but no one wants to pretend like it's not happening. And discussing mundane things like the weather or yesterday's homework just makes me feel faintly nauseous.

It doesn't take us long to reach the town square and when we do, we're suddenly surrounded on all sides by hundreds of kids crushing into us and peacekeepers dressed in their horrible white uniforms and helmets. Elsie panics.

"Robyn." She clutches at her sister desperately, her voice rising frantically.

"It's okay." Robyn soothes her. "It's okay."

Beside me, Theo slips his hand through mine. I can tell he's frightened and doesn't want to leave me, but is too embarrassed to show it. I tighten my grasp on him just a little.

"Isabelle," As the crowd of kids around us thickens and we're all carried along towards the people who'll sign us in, Robyn grabs her other sister. "Take Elsie. Get her to the right section."

Elsie and Isabelle disappear into the throng and I feel Theo's hand yanked from my grasp. And then before I can grab him again, I'm at the front of the queue and the woman at the desk is asking for my finger. I give it to her, barely flinching as she pricks it and presses it to the paper. I'm too preoccupied with scouring the crowd behind me, searching for Theo.

"Boys, 16." The woman tells me. I don't even acknowledge her, pushing past the desk and joining the quick moving queue into the roped off sections. I spot Theo being herded along a little way ahead of me. He's with one of his friends and although he's looking a little pale, I'm pretty sure he'll be okay.

I reach my designated pen and take my position among the other guys my age, shoving my hands deep into my pockets and staring stolidly up at the stage in front of the justice building. There's a low thrum of nerves in the air, the quiet but jarring buzz of anxious conversation as the other kids around me group up, seeking comfort in numbers.

I stand alone.

Someone's fiddling with the microphones on stage, and every so often, awkward, grating squeals blast through the speakers, making me wince. People are still milling around, parents moving over to the roped off sections around the edge, other kids still finding their designated enclosures. Capitol men with cameras and boom mics pace the length of the square, filming the tense anxious faces of adults and children alike, chatting amicably with other members of the crew, acting like this is all some kind of _game._

Of course. I keep forgetting it is a game to them.

My eyes drift up and rest on the huge clock tower, leaning menacingly over the square. I watch as the second hand moves round, slowly, steadily, taking us closer and closer to that moment when 12's escort sticks her hand in that bowl and maybe pulls out my name, or the name of someone I love.

Damn. I just want this over with.

Shaking my head a little, I turn away from the clock, my gaze wandering across the town square again. I scan the 'girls, 16' section looking for Robyn - partly to reassure her with a smile and partly to be reassured by hers. I think I might spot her a little way into the crowd, but there's a group of merchant girls in the way and I can't see past them.

Accepting I'll just have to man up and get on with it, I eye the merchant girls idly, watching them huddle together, blonde braids swishing as they talk nervously and gesticulate wildly. I recognise a few from school, faces I passed in dimly lit corridors, names I never cared to learn... until my attention is caught by one of the girls, standing a little way from the main group.

She's standing very upright, her hands clasped in front of her. Her white dress flutters in the breeze and her long blonde hair is pinned up in a style that's far too old for her face.

I think her name is Maysilee. An unusual name for an unusual girl.

She's in my class at school, along with her twin sister, and her father owns the sweet shop on Merchant's Row - a kindly man who'd often give away the burnt edges of a tray of gingerbread or the discarded, misshapen pear drops to the Seam kids who'd press their noses up against the shop window on the way back from school in exchange for odd jobs, like sweeping the front step, or sorting sweet wrappers.

While the other merchant girls played hopscotch in the street, squealing and running away whenever we came too close, Maysilee used to sit on the shop counter, swinging her legs, watching us dusky skinned, soot stained urchins with unconcealed interest.

Now, it's my turn to watch Maysilee as her twin sister - the bright, brassy and confident Delphine - and their best friend, Larkspur - the only daughter of the apothecary; intense, quiet and equally as beautiful as the Donner twins - appear on either side of her. Maysilee flashes a brief smile in the direction of her twin, who's looking uncharacteristically solemn, and all three of them link hands, their fingers weaving together in between them.

As I watch, Maysilee's eyes shift sideways and our gazes suddenly meet. I realise I've been staring openly and suddenly feel defiant. I regard her boldly, challenging her to grimace or sneer or flinch, as the other Merchant kids tend to do when you catch their eye.

But she does none of these things, just regards me back, her blue eyes almost expectant.

Someone jostles me from behind, and I break her gaze.

"Shove up." A Seam lad I recognise from my maths class nudges me forward. The pen is growing crowded as the few remaining kids push their way in in the last few minutes before the reaping begins.

The hum of anxious murmurings and the shuffling of bodies continue for a few moments more, but eventually, everyone is where they should be and gradually, we fall silent. A stillness descends across the crowd, settling like snow.

And the clock strikes two.

The doors of the justice building swing open, like the gaping jaws of a beast.

Four figures emerge from the gloom, slowly one by one. First, the mayor - a small, tired looking man with a receding hairline. He takes his place at the edge of the stage as he does every year. And then, despite myself, I crane my neck a little, looking on with interest at the two figures that follow him...

This year's mentors. Previous victors of the Games drafted in from other districts to mentor the tributes from district 12 - the poor outlying district unfortunate enough never to have had a victor of our own.

I often wonder about these mentors. Do they teach 12's kids half heartedly, secretly hoping a tribute from their own district will take the crown? Or do they fight as hard as they can, wanting the prestige that would surely come to any mentor who led the first district 12 tribute to victory?

A tall, broad man with dark blonde hair and a craggy, fierce face stalks out of the doors and across the stage, barely sparing a glance for the rest of us. I recognise him immediately as Jared Lowe of district 2. I don't remember his Games, but he's pretty famous amongst the victors at the moment since he mentored last year's winner, Brutus. Right now, though, he looks seriously wracked off. Probably about being lumbered with 12's typically scrawny and malnourished tributes.

Right behind him is a small woman with caramel coloured skin and thin, slightly hunched shoulders. She's older - early fifties perhaps - but her hair is thick and dark, pulled back from her face and braided with wooden beads. I'm not sure who she is. I doubt she won the Games in my lifetime.

The two mentors take their place next to the mayor, just as the fourth figure, brightly clad in green and gold, strides confidently out onto the stage.

Farah Nadia.

God. That woman is terrifying.

She's district 12's escort and has been for as long as I can remember. She's got to be in her forties, at least, but her smooth black skin and bright white smile means her age is completely indeterminable. Her voice is loud and commanding and she must be nearly seven foot tall – her height helped somewhat by her huge platform heels and afro style hair.

She reaches the microphone, her lips stretching into a lazy smile as she leans forward.

"District 12, welcome," She begins, her voice booming out across the square. "To this most special day." I almost - almost - snort, but catch myself just in time. "Today," Farah continues. "We celebrate fifty years of glory, fifty years of peace." Her smile is soft. Her voice, however, is not. "Welcome to the 50th Hunger Games!"

Right on cue, the huge screens above her flicker to life and that stupid video – the one that Snow thinks justifies this, justifies murder – begins playing, the dull, matter-of-fact voice of the narrator rumbling out across the square.

The video rambles on for a while, footage of flames and riots swiftly followed by images of happy people toiling in lush fields, showing us exactly what the deluded Capitol citizens think our life is like. I watch the video and I watch the ridiculous scenes dance across the screen, but I don't listen. I never do. If I did, I might just scream.

This is always the worst part… the waiting. Can't they just pick the names? Can't they just get it over with and then whisk the unfortunate tributes off to the Capitol, leaving the rest of us to breathe a sigh of relief and then get on with our lives? Obviously not. Obviously it's more fun to remind us that this is it, this life is all we will ever have and nothing we can do will change that. We're trapped.

I vaguely hear the music reach a crescendo and then the screens flicker and fade to black.

Silence.

Farah regards us, one dark eyebrow arched as we stand, staring back at her with sullen resentment. What does she expect? A huge hooray for the Capitol?

She lets out a little throaty chuckle.

"So much excitement." She drawls, her eyes flashing briefly in the direction of the cameras. "Shall we continue?" She snatches up the microphone and struts along the front of the stage. "Right, as you all know, this year is the second Quarter Quell, and in honour of this special anniversary, twice the number of tributes will be selected..." And here, she pauses, her voice growing grave. "Meaning four tributes from ever district will be entered into the Games. Two young men and two young women."

I swallow. No need to remind us of that.

"And here to mentor those four tributes this year," Farah continues, gesturing towards the two victors on stage. "We have the privilege of welcoming district 2's Jared Lowe, winner of the 36th Hunger Games." Jared gives a brusque nod of acknowledgement. "And victor of the 15th Hunger Games, district 9's Hanna O'Marry." Hanna inclines her head, accepting her introduction with downcast eyes. "And now," Farah moves across the stage towards the reaping bowls, taking slow dramatic strides. "Now it is time to put our destiny into the hands of Chance, as we select four brave young men and women to represent district 12 in this year's Games."

She reaches the first glass bowl - the one with _Robyn's_ name inside - and halts behind it, palms raised like an ancient priest above a sacrifice.

"District 12," She says, her hand lowering into the bowl. "May the odds be ever in your favour."

There's a hush as she swirls her fingers around inside the bowl, and draws out a small folded up piece of paper.

I feel every muscle tense up as she begins to unfold it, slowly, carefully.

_Here we go again._

"Charlotte Blackthorne."

A murmur from the girls and a few of the boys around me.

"Not Char." Someone mutters from behind me. I personally don't recognise the name, but then a girl, wiry and lean with dusky Seam skin and short dark hair emerges from the "girls, 15" pen. She looks slightly shell shocked, but manages to remain composed.

"Charlotte?" Farah meets her at the top of the steps with a smile. "Lovely. Come and stand here, Charlotte. That's perfect." After positioning Charlotte Blackthorne, Farah returns to the bowls, this time plunging her hand into the boys' names. "Shall we have a young man next?"

_Oh god oh god oh god oh god._

Farah clears her throat.

"Harry Torley."

My breath rushes through my teeth. So far so good, I think, before immediately feeling guilty as, with a far amount of shuffling from "boys,14" and a few sad whispers, Harry Torley - another Seam kid, small, with a mop of dark hair - edges slowly towards the stage.

"Up you come, Harry." Farah says softly into the microphone. I think even she is subdued by how small and vulnerable looking Harry is. Nevertheless, his name was pulled from the bowl, and Farah is nothing if not _professional_, and so Harry is pushed into position beside Charlotte. He shrinks into his jacket, his head darting from side to side like a little frightened bird. Poor kid. Probably won't make it past the bloodbath.

I wring my hands in front of me. Usually this would be it. Another year, everyone I love safe...

"Back to the girls!" Farah returns to the bowl and pulls out another slip of paper. She unfolds it slowly.

"Maysilee Donner."

My shoulders sag in relief. Not Robyn, not Elsie, not Isabelle. _Thank you_.

But then the name registers_. Maysilee Donner_.

Maysilee Donner.

My head snaps round towards her. She's gone very still and very pale, her mouth open in silent horror. Delphine lets out a wail, throwing her arms around her sister's shoulders and Larkspur clutches raggedly at her hands, her lips silently but clearly forming _No!_ over and over again.

Yet Maysilee remains rigid.

"Maysilee?" Farah repeats, craning her neck as she searches for her. "Maysilee, where are you?"

"No, no no!" Delphine is sobbing now, and neither she nor Larkspur will let Maysilee go. The girl in question bows her head - a brief moment of weakness - but then her chin lifts and gently but deftly, she shakes off her sister and friend. Throwing her shoulders back, she heads up the main aisle towards the stage, the peacekeepers shadowing her the whole way.

Farah greets her at the steps and steers her into place beside Harry, and there she stands, head held high, chin locked and lifted proudly.

Delphine and Larkspur cling onto each other, their cries fractured and muffled by each other's shoulders. I feel a pang of sympathy for Maysilee's sobbing twin. I've never seen her so unravelled.

On stage, Maysilee stands, upright and regal, her gaze lifted above the crowd, her dress, a pure crisp white, glowing in the pallid sunlight against the dingy backdrop of the justice building. I eye her half pityingly, half admiringly. She's going to die – 12 tributes always do – and yet here she stands with her head held high and her jaw locked fiercely. I hope she manages to keep her dignity. I hope the Capitol doesn't snatch it away from her.

But then, even as I'm watching her, her head suddenly jerks downwards and then she's looking directly at me, her eyes widening slightly.

I blink at her for a moment - what's she looking at me like that for? - before realising that everyone else is looking at me too.

The boy beside me touches my elbow.

"Sorry, mate." He whispers. I glance around me, bewildered. What's going on?

And then I turn back to see Farah, standing in front of the boys' reaping bowl, a new slip of paper in her hand. She lifts the microphone to her lips, and her next words wrap around my chest like a snake, constricting tighter and tighter until I can't breathe.

"Haymitch Abernathy." She repeats, reading from the slip, before looking up and scanning the crowd expectantly. "Where's Haymitch Abernathy?"

* * *

...

* * *

**Thanks for reading! Hopefully I'll update sooner next time...**

**NB: In case you haven't worked it out, Larkspur is the eventual Mrs Everdeen... I read a story once with that as her name and I thought it was lovely. Mrs E doesn't really play a role in this story and neither does Maysilee's twin, Delphine (the eventual Mrs Undersee, Madge's mom), but well, they needed names ;) Plus I hope Maysilee is suitably intriguing... I always thought she'd be the kind of person whose inner emotions were pretty impossible to read.**


End file.
